My Lungs are Full of You

three: flowers

Harry goes back to work and convinces himself that his father is right, like always. At least about the clock. There is such thing as magic, but life is no fairytale. Life's life, filled with boring, normal clock towers, occupied and controlled by no one. Life's life and real men do not even dare to believe otherwise.

The second Harry walks in, Death appears again, knocking Harry off his feet. Death catches him, grunting by the weight. "Woah there buddy," he says, settling Harry back on his feet. "Everyone's alright."

" No, " says Harry, breathless.

"No? No what, no touching?" He backs away from him.

"You're kidding me." Harry holds out his hands. They hold steady and Harry feels a strong sense of betrayal. His world as he knows it collapses and Harry's body stands, fine, stable. It is terribly unfair.

"Not currently, no." Death sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks on the heels of his feet. "You good?"

" Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Well," says Death, scratching his chin, "maybe you aren't, then. You fainted last time we met. Like, the moment you saw me. Little rude, but, hey. It's whatever. I'm a whatever type of guy."

"I'm feeling like fainting right now," says Harry, but it's a lie. Some part of him is completely at ease with this odd man.

"You need anything? I have some herbal remedies, if you catch my drift--"

" No, " says Harry, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. "Is this real? Are you really Death?"

Death frowns. "Well not the Death -- bringing your soul to the land of the dead is fairybook stuff, and that's just ridiculous."

"Yes," agrees Harry, weakly. "Ridiculous... Did you not show yourself to my father?"

"Your father?" Death's frown deepens and he groans. "Father... are you serious? You're a Potter?"

"Yeah," says Harry, a bit offended he couldn't tell just by looking at him, his carbon copy. "He said you weren't real." Or so is the polite way to put it. "Did he never see you?"

"Nope," says Death, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fawkin hated that dude. I'd never reveal myself to him. Bad vibes, that dude. You can tell their type just by looking at them--"

"Dude," says Harry. "I'm right here, you know."

Death holds up his hands. "Right, right, sorry. Hey, you promise to be chill? Cause I don't want to hang out with anyone like him."

Harry narrows his eyes at him. Death rolls his. "Fine, fine! I don't want to hang out with anyone I won't get along with, alright? That better? Now, pinky promise me."

Harry blinks at him. "What?" he says, laughing. "Are -- Are you serious?"

Death holds out his pinky expectedly.

After a moment, Harry wraps it around his own, feeling a little silly. "Okay," he says, like he is talking to a child. "I promise."

xxx

The next few evenings pass without incident, nor visitation. Harry looks over the clock three times a week, makes minor repairs here and there, ensures proper maintenance. Two weeks go by and Harry begins convincing himself once again that it was fake -- the story playing in his head again of Harry hallucinating, needing professional help he's not getting.

But he knows that isn't true. He knows that isn't what happened.

He doesn't tell Ron what he encountered in the clock tower. He doesn't tell his father, either. The difference there is he doesn't want to. It's like James said; he is a polite person and if James disagrees with his reality -- well, then, it's best not to bring it up. Best not to cause problems.

He doesn't tell Ron for reasons he doesn't understand -- reasons he might not ever; something to do with a flutter in his gut and flowers and poofs. Death is an undeniably handsome man. But Harry is a fighter, not a lover, so he ignores this fact and gets on with his work. He also shuts the hell up about it.

Death meets him on week three. He's sitting on the windowsill of the clock face, swinging his legs idly. "Sorry for the absence," he greets, jumping down with an oomph. "Been a bit busy."

Harry kneels and begins oiling the gears. "With what? It's not like there's much to do up here, I'd suppose."

"You'd be surprised," mutters Death. He sticks his hands in his pocket and shifts from foot to foot, watching Harry work.

Harry glances up, adjusting his hat. "Do you have to watch me?"

"Watching's what I do best," he says, shrugging. "Up here in my tower, all lone, you'd be surprised at everything I've seen... the things I've saw... "

"Well," girts out Harry, turning a bolt with a wrench, tightening it. "Isn't that just ominous and foreboding? Is that all you do, watch?"

A pause. "I garden," answers Death, voice all of a sudden soft.

Harry swallows, unsure if it is safe to continue the conversion -- as if the unmanliness of it will infect him -- but trudges forward. "Where?" he asks.

Death shrugs. "There's a cool ass patch of dirt at the very tip top of the tower. I tend to my crops and such in my free time -- which is often."

"Crops?"

"Corn. Peppers. Sometimes... flowers."

Can I see? Harry wants to ask. He doesn't. "Well, that's nice."

"It's something to pass the time with."

"Is it lonely?"

A thin lipped smile. "No," he says, but it sounds strained. "Not when you're around, at least."

Harry hums, turns back to his work, and tells himself sternly to stay away from such sappy things. But he will enter the clock tower next time, a bag of seeds from the market freshly bought, ready to be gifted to Death.